The man called Muunokhoi has no Family. He arrived in the city a year ago, rootless and homeless. He had a few close calls during his first weeks in New Kowloon, but at this point he's gotten the lay of the land pretty well. Right now, he's visiting one of the nicer synth bars that lets riff raff like him in without a fight. This is his third bar tonight. The second bar was one of the ones that only let riff raff like him in with a fight, so he's still bleeding a little. S'fine. Nothing stuck him past his subdermal weave, and his capillary augments will have the damage he did take scabbed up in minutes.

He swaggers up to the bar's vending counter, his towering body draped with scrap and knick-knacks. (His earthy possession, in sum total: why keep what you can't carry?) From amidst this jangling multitude he unclasps a few particularly barter-shaped trinkets and slaps them down between himself and the bartender.

"Wanna open a tab. Pour me some of that 'ard shit, and put in one of those pretty little umbrellas."